


You’re So Fond Of Games, You Must Never Lose

by MistahJay (CassLikesFic)



Series: Gotham's Finest [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cisswap, Edging, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Femdom, Femme!Joker, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderswap, Masc!HarleyQuinn, Masturbation, Pegging, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/MistahJay
Summary: 8:00pm. Dinner. Figure out where. Don’t wear the uniform. -J





	You’re So Fond Of Games, You Must Never Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Not associated with any particular movie or comic storyline. The idea bit and wouldn’t let go. This one’s longer.

Quinn stops for coffee at the battered news stand near his apartment. He could make better coffee at home, he knows it. It’s one of the few interactions with people he has outside his work though, so he’s willing to drink shitty coffee to get it.

“Mornin’, Officer,” and “Forty eight cents is your change” may be unmemorable for anyone else, but for Quinn, they’re a lifeline.  _ Someone knows I exist. _ He needs that anchor, outside of Gotham’s police force and the intricate, complex dance he’s stepping through with Joker. There’s a small business card in his palm along with the worn coins and he looks at it without surprise, already two blocks down the street.

_ 8:00pm. Dinner. Figure out where. Don’t wear the uniform. -J _

The commuters keep going, parting and flowing around him like water. Just because his world has frozen in time doesn’t mean they won’t be late. No one wants to be out of a job, economy like this.

It doesn’t matter how Joker got the card to him - this is always how it happens. Quinn finds a payphone and punches his boss’s number, coughing a few times to roughen his throat. If he’s calling in sick, he wants to sound the part. He finds the right tone as the phone rings. “Hey, boss.”   
  
“Quinn, glad you called, I couldn’t get you at home.” Quinn’s stomach turns to lead and he turns in the phonebooth, readjusting the receiver.   
  
“I was on my way in already. Grabbed a coffee, thought I’d check in. What…uh, what’s going on?”   


“Bomb threat down at Wayne Hotel. It’s a clown problem.” Quinn knows something about clown problems.

“Feds called in?”

“They don’t trust us to get the job done, apparently. Juris-my-diction crap and all that. So what it means is we’ve got two square blocks cordoned off and a bunch of assholes in suits arguing about whether or not the threat is real. No one in or out of the cordon.”

“Hostages?”

“Nah, phoned it in. One call cleared the room. Place is probably crawling with clowns looting what got left behind in the panic. Rich bastards can afford it, at least.”

“Oh. Got it.” At least Quinn knows where their dinner reservations are, without question.

“Look, I’m sorry to do this to you, especially with how often you’ve been out sick lately, but I can’t afford to have you come in and add to the assholes standing in a circle doing nothing.”

“Oh. Shit, that’s…that’s-”  _ Convenient. _ “...gonna make it hard to make rent next month.”  


“I know, I’m sorry.”  


“...well, if there’s no other option...” He trails off hopefully, wheedling but resigned.  


“Sorry, Quinn. Especially since you were already on your way in and all. Go home.” The line goes dead. Quinn throws his coffee into an overflowing trash can, startling a rat, and turns around. It’s not even nine in the morning. He hopes he’ll have enough time to get ready.

* * *

He starts with a shower, waiting for the water sputtering out of the head to go from rusty brown to cloudy clear. He washes thoroughly, hands lingering on his throat, his neck, his thighs. He washes his face thoroughly - greasepaint is hell on his skin. Quinn shaves in the watery midmorning light, scraping away three days of stubble with a month old razor blade. Applies the remains of a nearly empty tube of chapstick to soften his lips, combs his damp hair. He exhales softly and watches his reflection in the mirror, turning his face this way and that. Joker likes calling him  _ pretty _ and he tries to live up to the compliment, but he doesn't feel he meets it often.

Things are much simpler when he's actually at Joker's mercy. Doubt creeps in when he kills time before, icy fingers dragging down his spine.  _ You're a joke, a trophy. Look how far she can get a police officer to crawl. _ But there is tenderness there, and compassion to the cruelty that makes him think this isn't one sided. He remembers the softness on her face, the tenderness in her eyes when he begs.  


"You make me smile." She had said those words, and he trusts them. He summons that certainty as he looks at the contents of his closet, waist wrapped in a threadbare towel. He doesn't have anything suitable for fine dining at the Wayne, but he can at least look clean and presentable.

Quinn selects the one suit he makes do double duty for funerals and weddings. Lays it out on the chair for later. Dark gray and tailored to fit him when he had more muscle, was able to eat better. It hangs on his lean frame now, gapping a little at the waist. A belt will fix that. Quinn's mouth goes dry as he runs his fingers over the old, shiny leather. He thinks about the possibilities there, but doesn’t let himself get as far as wanting them.

He doesn't touch himself. Something feels different tonight, and he feels sharp edged and defiant in the face of this invitation. He wonders what she'll do if he arrives dry, soft, without expectation or anticipation. What if it is just a dinner date? What if he treated it that way? Quinn sits on the foot of the small bed that takes up most of the space in his apartment. He watches baseball, enjoying the prickly contrariness curling in his stomach. He thinks that for once, he might make Joker work for it.

He resolve lasts three innings before he shuts the game off with a frustrated growl, tosses the remote on the side table, and digs in the drawer. The capped bottle is half empty already - Quinn does the mental math on how often he's used it. Heat spikes his stomach with embarrassment and arousal. He can feel her fingers on his tongue. He tastes paint and smoke at the back of his throat. He lays back on the bed, one leg cocked up, knees spread out. He thinks about the picture he'd make for her. He can feel his pulse in his throat. He remembers the first time. The very first time, when it had all been new and terrifying. Remembers the soft laugh she’d made when she found him slick and ready.

_ "Is this for my comfort, officer?" There was that edge of manic amusement in her voice that felt deadly serious. She punctuated her words with a deliberate twist of her fingers that made Quinn's cock twitch in response.  
_

_ “Just like to- fuck, there-” He lost his words, and it took a minute to find them again. "Prepare for anything.”  
_

_ “I’d think you didn’t trust me.” An amused chuckle that grew in pitch, each breathy ha feeling like a punch to the gut.  
_

_ "Didn't know how much time we'd have. What you would have wanted. You might’ve been in a hurry." _

_ "You think I couldn’t take my time with you? You think anyone gives a shit what happens in this city or how long I take about it?" There was bitterness there, and Quinn tried to take note of it. Then Joker's fingers found their mark and he was making helpless, open mouthed sounds that were this side of needy. _

He didn’t know why he’d done it the first time. He hadn’t known what to expect, just knew that if he was going to put himself at Joker’s feet and convince her that there were more fun things to torment Gotham police with than murder, he’d better have been ready for anything.

Quinn doesn't fantasize as he works himself open, less gently than Joker's controlled fingers have ever tested him. He doesn’t really need to fantasize - he has more than enough memories that will do the job quick enough. But he thinks of questions he wants the answers to and knows he doesn't have yet. _ How do I get to touch you? When will I be good enough?  _ He moans behind clenched teeth, lips closed tightly. He’s loud for her, but he’s quiet, so quiet here, with thin walls he can hear his neighbor’s TV through.  


_ “I didn’t think I’d get enthusiasm out of you. I want to see the look on your face.” Joker said, fingers slipping out swiftly enough that Quinn let out a ragged gasp. Gentle hands turned him, pressing his back firm against the dressing room’s rough wall.  
_

_ Joker dragged her thumb through the red paint framing her mouth, the color smearing underneath her fingertips, fresh and bloody. Quinn couldn’t look away, and couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face at the sight of bare skin, real and human underneath. The thumb dragged across his lower face, one corner of his mouth to the other, leaving a smeared red mess. Quinn bit down lightly on the pad of it when Joker rested it against his bottom lip.  
_

_ “Gotham’s finest.” Joker mused quietly, eyes serious as Quinn lapped the paint off her thumb. The smile dropped from her face like a sheet of ice falling off a roof. There was the barest twitch of an eyebrow. _

_ “I do my best.” Quinn said in a rough whisper, capturing the Joker's thumb between his lips and sucking with what he thought was a decent amount of skill. The taste that filled his mouth was waxy and sharp - makeup and nicotine and something metallic, like gunpowder or blood. _

The knot in his stomach tightens and he has to slow his hand, breathing deeply. She wouldn’t know if he came now, but waiting is a habit burnt into his muscle memory. Maybe she would laugh if she did know. Knowing that just the memory of her thumb in his mouth could make him arch and shudder. He breathes deeply and slowly, counts to twenty. Thinks about the baseball game he barely watched. Thinks about her voice, close to his ear.

He thinks about how much he loves her and closes his eyes. He didn't mean to, but it happened anyway. She has a knack for that. Just one more intense sensation she can coax from him at will. One more secret she'll draw out of him soon enough.

_ "Tell me the truth." The fingers inside him curled in a beckoning motion, making Quinn buck against the iron grip of her other hand pinning him to the wall. "What did you think I was gonna do to you?" _

_ "I don't know." _

_ "You do know. Keep talking." And then the rasping, wet hot sensation of Joker's mouth closing around him. _

_ "Fuck, I can't think, I… Rough, I guess. Rough and fast, and you'd laugh at me. Make me sorry I said yes when you asked if I wanted you." Joker hummed around his length and took him in deeper. "I didn't think you'd be...like this." He let his eyes fall closed and let himself fall into the sensations, the obscene sound of his cock slipping in and out of Joker’s mouth. The fingers spreading apart, opening him up further. _

_ "You thought it'd be quick. You'd stay in control?" _

_ "I thought...I thought-" He shuddered and began to try and shift away from the grip, to get a break from the sensations rocking him. To breathe and think. "You didn't seem to like when I said yes. I thought you were gonna make me pay for it. Take it out of my skin. I was ready for a beating from your goons. I wasn't ready for…All this." _

_ "Shhh. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh." Quinn was empty and wanting again, turned around inside his own head. He felt the rough slide of a hand against his hip, wiping his own slick off on his uniform. Joker's hands cupped his face, cradling his head against the badly painted plaster. He heard the sing-song lilt of Joker's voice, just in front of his face. "I will, Harley. I will make you pay for it. My way." Strong thumbs brushed the smear of greasepaint left on either side of Quinn's mouth. A deep, wet kiss, Joker's mouth sliding over his again and again. _

He loves the way she kisses him, possessive and marking. He loves the smell of paint on her skin. The way moods flick over her face like a dealer shuffling a pack of cards. Queen of Hearts. Jack of Spades. Red, black, red, black. He shivers, exhales softly, wraps a hand firmly around his heavy erection. Remembers.

_ "Can't I...please, I wanna touch you." Quinn hated how desperate the edge to his voice had taken, but he couldn't think of how he was going to get control back of the situation. If he even wanted it at this point. _

_ "I said  _ I'd  _ have  _ you _ ." Joker corrected with an edge of tenderness. "You gotta pay attention to these things." She gently chided. "Where was I?" She asked with the air of someone who walked into a room and forgets what they came in for. Quinn looked at the smeared paint around Joker's mouth helplessly. Joker trailed her fingers along the edges of Quinn's mouth. "You're pretty as a picture with a little paint on you, Quinn. Say thank you." She added in a soft, conspiratorial tone. _

_ "Thank you, Mister J." _

_ "That's nice." Joker wrapped one hand firmly around Quinn's still hard and eager cock, the other splayed out possessively over his throat. "I liked that you said yes. Tell me yes again, and I'm gonna have you. As long as I want you." _

_ "...yes." Quinn whispered, eyes heavy lidded. "Yes, yes, yes." _

He jerks his hand away as though he’s burnt himself, shaking all over and gasping for breath. Close, so close, tension humming like a livewire through his whole body. Fuck. Count to fifty. Breathe. Count to a hundred. Ignore the ache. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Start again.

_ His face was a mess of greasepaint smears and grateful tear tracks, and his hands and legs wouldn't stop shaking as he tried to rearrange his uniform. Joker surprised him, not for the first time, by straightening Quinn's clothing for him with deft, careful hands. Joker's paint was just as bad, maybe worse. She fished out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, passing it over to Harley who took it, before lighting her own. Quinn wasn't able to meet Joker's eyes, feeling raw and shaky, coughing on the smoke from the cheap cigarette. His whole body felt like one exposed nerve. Joker surprised him by speaking after a long exhale. _

_ "You'll want cold cream." _

_ "I'm sorry?" A shiver went through Quinn at Joker's look, feeling the echo of her fingers deep inside. _

_ "Cold cream. Or lotion. Makes it easier. The makeup won't come off with soap and water without a lot of scrubbing. It'll be hard on your skin." _

_ "Oh." Quinn said. "Thank you." He added after a moment, taking another, steadier drag. He could feel the ground under his feet again, solid and steady. His limbs felt heavy, warm and languid, his mind quiet. "I'd like to do that again, sometime. It was..." Words failed him and he was quiet for a long moment. "... Not what I expected." _

_ "I'll call you." Joker said, voice steadier and calmer than Quinn had ever heard it. Quinn dissolved into helpless laughter, the phrase so everyday after the night he'd just had. He doubled over, holding his stomach, and after a moment Joker was joining him. _

He was pausing at least ten minutes for every one with his hand on his cock, the sunlight filling the room honey golden. Quinn lay on the bed in a fuzzy daze, the world soft edged and narrowed down to a small, aching point. He let his hand fall away, taking the time to come back to himself. When he looked at the clock radio, it was later than he'd expected. These games took time.  


He climbed off the bed, feeling chilled and oversensitive. When he could trust the brush of fabric against his skin wouldn't bring him, he ironed his suit and then dressed carefully. Neat buttons, crisp lines. Exhale. Count to ten. Inhale. He searched his face in the mirror, looking for whatever she saw when she studied him, but couldn't find it.

* * *

On his way to the Wayne (side streets deserted except for the homeless bedding down for the evening, rats and litter) he sees a corner market with flowers outside. $8 for ten roses. He counts the change in his wallet, picks out the least tattered looking bouquet and pays. The clerk gives him an indulgent smile, rare in this neighborhood. Maybe she remembers better days, when customers didn't pay through bulletproof glass.

"Someone is very lucky."

"I am." Quinn brings the barely scented roses to his face and inhales deeply. His vision swims with red and orange and yellow before he pulls back. He gives her a tender smile, and the clerk thinks that the world can't be so bad as the news says if there are still sweet young lovers like him in it.


End file.
